Reign of Mist

by Helen Scheuerer

  Reign of Mist

  Book II: The Oremere Chronicles

  Helen Scheuerer

  Contents

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Acknowledgments

  Did you enjoy this book?

  About the Author

  Need more Oremere?

  Published by Talem Press, 2018

  An imprint of Writer’s Edit Press

  www.talempress.com

  Copyright © Helen Scheuerer 2018

  Helen Scheuerer asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

  All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without prior permission of the publisher.

  First printing, 2018

  Print ISBN 978-0-9941655-7-2

  Ebook ISBN 978-0-9941655-6-5

  Cover design by Alissa Dinallo

  This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

  This one’s for sisters.

  Most of all, it’s for Yasmin Scheuerer.

  Prologue

  From a clifftop overlooking the roiling mist, a woman watched a ship smash upon jagged rocks. Squinting into the violent wind and rain, she saw it shatter into pieces, a single survivor – a girl – flung from the wreckage into the churning foam. The waves pummelled her, no doubt dragging her over unforgiving coral and filling her lungs with salt water. The girl washed up unconscious on the coarse, gravelly sand, the lapping waves breaking over her calves. All that remained of her ship were floating splinters of wood, and a single sail, filled with pockets of air, bubbling at the sea’s surface.

  The orange light of dawn was muted by the mist. The woman was already eating her cold breakfast when down below, the newcomer woke with a start, the tide creeping up her body. She was injured – that much was clear as she hauled herself through the wet grit of the shore.

  From her hiding spot, the woman watched on, ever vigilant, following the girl’s struggles over the uneven terrain. The girl didn’t give up. She dragged herself across the dunes, heading inland, only pausing when she reached the crest of the shore. There, on unsteady feet, she stood, staring out onto the misty moors and the ruined remains of a great fortress in the near distance.

  The woman pulled her cloak tight, bracing herself against the dying storm, and began the descent of the cliff face, a ghost in the shadows. She followed the girl, close enough to hear her laboured breathing and muttered curses. Close enough to see the foreign markings on her wrist.

  The woman continued after her. She wanted to see what the newcomer made of Oremere.

  Chapter 1

  The fortress was formidable. Its sheer vastness overwhelmed Bleak, even in its broken state. As far as she could see, there were old watchtowers, turrets, fallen slabs of stone wall, and a keep; in fragmented pieces, yet somehow still magnificent. A long time ago, it would have been an impenetrable stronghold, but now …

  The colours were different here, softer and sapped of their brightness, thanks to the lingering mist. As she staggered into the ruins, it swirled around her ankles and settled on her skin. Despite her weakened state, the soft thrum of her magic was ever-present, whispering back to it.

  It was dusk when she reached the first crumbled watchtower. Half of the structure still stood, while the rest lay in a broken pile of rubble in its shadow. Bleak ran her fingers across its rough stones and felt the velvet petals of the little red flowers with black centres that grew in its fractures. But she didn’t dare stop here; she wouldn’t get up again.

  Her journey from Heathton had lasted days, maybe a week or two. She didn’t know. It all had blurred into a mess of blood, storms and mist. Now finally, she found shelter from the wind by a thick wall of stone, praying that it wouldn’t come crashing down on her in her sleep. She didn’t have the energy for more questions and investigation. She didn’t have the energy to build a much-needed fire. She didn’t have the energy to do anything, and so at last she allowed herself to shrug off her spare rope and pack. She rummaged for the water canteen and, finding it, put it to her cracked lips. Taking a measured sip, she savoured the cool moisture on her dry, fat tongue. It took all her willpower not to guzzle the whole canteen then and there. She had to make her supplies last if she wanted any chance of finding answers in Oremere.

  With her back pressed against the cold stone, and a frayed length of rope clutched in her hands, Bleak closed her eyes. At last, after the longest day of her life, she could sleep. She felt the exhaustion tugging at her consciousness, inviting her into a heavy, dreamless slumber. Relief washed over her. Escape was near. But just as she was about to drift over that edge, she heard something.

  Her eyes flew open.

  A deep, wheezing breath rattled from within the fortress. It set Bleak’s teeth on edge. Stomach churning, she dropped her rope and got to her feet. Despite the pain, she crouched, dagger unsheathed at her side.

  Who’s out there? Should I make myself known? Or will it only lead to further trouble? Surely I’ve had enough trouble for one lifetime?

  The wheezing breath rasped, in and out, in and out, and Bleak’s heart hammered against her sternum. Behind her, some of the stone wall crumbled and fell noisily to the ground as she brushed against it. She cursed.

  ‘Who’s there?’ she called out.

  She only heard more ragged wheezing.

  Whoever they were, was it possible that they were in a worse state than she? Wincing at the pain shooting through her ribs, Bleak stepped towards the noise, pulse racing.

  She had no torch, and despite the moonlight, the ruins before her plunged into darkness.

  Something snarled.

  Gods, what was she getting herself into? She moved forward, inch by inch, straining to make out any distinctive shapes. And then, she fell over it. A huge, furry mass at her feet.

  It roared in pain, and she scrambled back. It was clearly dangerous. Incredibly dangerous. But it didn’t move. Bleak backed away from the growling thing, her own breathing hitching. She didn’t know where its head was, and she wasn’t going to risk reaching out blindly only to have her hand ripped off. Whatever it was, it hadn’t killed her yet, which was a good sign. That was what she kept telling herself as she crept back to her own camp, groping her way through the archways and broken walls.

  The cold stone grating against h
er spine made for a poor bed, and the nearby ragged gasps for breath continued well into the night and early hours of the morning. She kept her face turned towards the creature, not quite able to assure herself that it wouldn’t slaughter her in her sleep. She dozed fitfully; every time she was on the verge of sleep, the wheezing jolted her awake, sounding closer than before.

  Sunlight hit the ruins, and Bleak felt worse than she had the previous day. Her eyes were puffy and sore, and her body … She pressed a tentative hand to her side and withdrew it almost instantly with a sharp intake of breath. She’d cracked multiple ribs. Every time she inhaled, jagged pain rippled through her. She could still hear the rasping breath from last night, though it was shallower this morning. She couldn’t wait any longer, she had to know what was there. Supporting herself on yesterday’s staff, she followed the sound to another ruined chamber and stopped short, clapping a hand over her mouth.

  There, in the misty morning light, lay the mangled body of a teerah panther.

  She stumbled back. These creatures were legends, myths used by parents to scare their children into decent bedtimes and eating their greens. They didn’t exist. And yet, the creature locked eyes with her, his pointed teeth bared in a hair-raising snarl. But he didn’t move.

  Bleak looked over the beast. He was the size of a horse, though if the tales were true, they were rumoured to grow much larger. However, the creature before her now was broken. He had been in a fight, or many fights, by the looks of things. His short, silvery-black fur was matted with blood from open wounds. Some of the cuts were deep enough that Bleak could see white fleshy tissue beneath – or was it bone?

  The teerah was so injured and malnourished that he could do no more than hiss at her presence, and follow her movements with suspicious eyes.

  Bleak’s stomach rumbled loudly, and she steadied herself against her staff, light-headed. When was the last time she’d eaten? She couldn’t remember. She hobbled back to where she’d left her pack and stood at the entrance to the ruins, taking in the view before her. Misty moors stretched across the land. The desolate plains reached out to a hazy horizon, with no landmarks save for the one Bleak now stood upon.

  Oremere. She’d made it. Against all odds, she was finally here, where the answers she needed lay somewhere deep in the mist.

  She turned back to the fortress, spotting the same velvety-red blooms she’d seen at the watchtower ruins the day before. They grew sparingly in the cracks of the stone, creeping up the broken walls and across the rubble on the ground like ivy.

  Now what? Bleak heaved her pack to the ruined chamber with the teerah panther. Despite her injuries and dwindling supplies, something drew her towards the beast. The big cat watched her, furious that he couldn’t pounce upon her for the kill. His razor-sharp claws were out, but he didn’t have the strength to swipe at her. When Bleak settled down opposite him, he closed his eyes.

  Bleak raised her water canteen to her lips and nearly vomited. The tepid liquid sluiced into her empty belly, making her queasy. She raised one of the last few seed bars to her lips and tentatively nibbled at it. It was dry and tasteless, sticking to the roof of her mouth and soaking up any moisture the few sips of water had given her.

  The teerah panther was watching her again.

  She wondered how long he’d been lying there, suffering. With all the remaining energy she could muster, she shuffled closer to the animal, ignoring his snarls. He couldn’t hurt her, that much was clear. Unsure of the feeling that had overcome her, Bleak lifted his head with both of her hands and rested it in her lap. He hissed and struggled weakly, but gave up soon after. Dismissing her earlier thoughts of rations, Bleak put the canteen to his mouth and tipped precious water in, some spilling out onto the stone beneath them. The teerah choked and spluttered. She waited and tried again. This time, he swallowed.

  ‘May as well quench our thirsts together,’ Bleak told him. ‘Though, I can think of better things to drink.’

  His big tongue licked at the spilt water on the stone.

  ‘What happened to you, friend?’ Bleak said, scanning over the horrific wounds littering the beast’s once magnificent body. A low growl rumbled from the big cat, but he didn’t move. Bleak rested her dirty, bloodied hand on his head, finding soft fur there.

  If she hadn’t been in so much pain, Bleak would have laughed. Here she was, in the supposed secret fifth continent of their realm, with a teerah panther’s head in her lap. The things she’d done, the things she’d been through to get here … If it wasn’t so tragic, it would have been funny.

  After a time, she retrieved her pack once more and brought it closer to where she sat with the panther. She fed him some of her dried meat, piece by piece. He was probably used to huge hulking slabs of fresh game.

  Beggars can’t be choosers, Bleak mused.

  Her own thirst and hunger had abated, which she knew was a dangerous sign. Her body was tiring. Finally, she slept.

  She dreamed of the weeks that had just passed. Of Henri, of Swinton, of Fiore and of Bren. Where were they all now? It felt like an age since they had crossed the rural counties of Ellest, tensions taut between them. Down in the cells of Heathton Castle’s dungeon, Swinton had told her that Henri and Bren had returned to their homes, and Bleak had been relieved. Much better for her childhood friend, Bren, to be back with his brothers and by the sea, than amidst the corruption of the capital. Much better for Henri to be back with the kindred of Valia.

  Images of the Hoddinott inn flashed in her mind. Silent screams for mercy. Eyes running with red. She had snapped; a hidden part of her ability had somehow been unlocked and unleashed on a dozen men. She remembered scrubbing the blood from her boots, and the smell of burning flesh as the fire they had lit had consumed the inn. Thank the gods Bren had returned to Angove. Thank the gods only three other people knew of what had happened there. She gnawed at the inside of her cheek as she slept, reliving the mess she’d created for herself.

  Bleak opened her eyes to find it was night again. The head of the teerah panther was still in her lap, and for a moment, she thought he was dead. But she leaned in and heard his shallow, raspy breath, saw his torso move as he clung to life a little longer.

  ‘I can’t let you die nameless,’ she whispered to him, her pity for the mauled animal twisting her insides. She stroked his matted fur, and he didn’t even growl this time, so close was he to death. Perhaps he didn’t want to die alone either.

  ‘Rion,’ she said. ‘Rion, a strong name for the beast you once were.’

  She poured some water into her palm and forced him to drink. She wet her own tongue, not even caring that the canteen was nearly empty. She wondered if they would both die here. Together. Before she found any answers.

  Bleak didn’t die. Nor did Rion. She woke the next day with a raging hunger and a searing thirst, but stronger than the day before. She shared the last of her dried meat and water with Rion, and then took up her staff, leaving her pack by the big cat, and set off. She was determined to explore the ruins if she wasn’t on death’s doorstep. Who knew what she could uncover amidst the rubble.

  Her ribs were agony, but she couldn’t stay still any longer. The epic stone walls, archways and remaining spires looked out to the East Sea, and once again Bleak wondered what the fortress had guarded. Mist swirled across the tall grass beyond it, concealing anything that might be out there.

  Mist dweller. Allehra’s words hadn’t ceased to haunt Bleak. And as the words churned in her mind, the mist seemed to come alive on her skin, beckoning the magic that pulsed beneath it. Gritting her teeth, Bleak pushed on through the ruins, looking for signs of other people, and more importantly, for water.

  With the canteen under one arm, and the staff supporting her under the other, she continued on, marvelling at the red blooms that seemed to follow her. She moved her staff forward and knocked something on the ground, sending it clattering across the stones. Squinting, she found what it had been – a compass. With much effort, she bent down t
o retrieve it. The dull silver was warm, though the sun was barely hitting the fortress. Bleak turned it over in her free hand; it was unadorned but for a leather string, and seemed to be working. Shrugging, she tied it around her neck and continued through to the next chamber. As she ducked under yet another archway, goosebumps shot across her skin and instinct told her that she was not alone.

  ‘Rion?’ she called out, as though the panther would answer her. He’d just as likely eat her, had he the strength to move an inch.

  She was sweating with the effort it took to manoeuvre herself around the broken stones and uneven ground. Mopping her brow with her sleeve, she felt the scab on her forehead come away, and fresh blood begin to trickle out of the old wound. Swearing under her breath, she hopped clumsily, trying to turn back the way she had come. She shouldn’t have walked so far, not when she was still so weak. And what if she got lost? It was possible – the fortress was huge.

  She started to clamber back through the ruins, and was so busy berating herself that she almost missed the puddle of water at her feet. Knees cracking as she got down on all fours, she blanched at the sight of her own reflection. In all her life of bar fights, drinking and street living, she’d never looked this terrible. Her face was thin and gaunt, the skin around her eyes was black and bruised, and the cut on her forehead was a bloody mess. She tucked the loose flyaways of her matted hair behind her ears. Gods, if only Senior and Bren could see her now.